Tea for two
by ffanon
Summary: "This disease," He begins; his voice is soft and careful, as though he's telling a child a bed time story rather than giving a young woman her death sentence. "Comes from the future, and I mean far, far out there, past when the original human race–" His hand on her cheek gets a little tighter, sharp and vivid lines pressing into his forehead. "That's you, has been gone for eons."
1. Prologue

How does one write a story about Death?

Growing up, I quickly learned, thanks to the stories that were read to me as a child, that each story, each poem, each piece of written literature all had a single thing in common.

And that was that they all had a beginning, middle and an end. However, not always in that order.

But how do you begin to write a story that has already had its ending? Do you start from the end and work your way forward? But at the same time you're working backwards. Or do you plop yourself down right in the middle of crisis, beginning your work at the dawn of the happiest memory.

Growing up, and even now, I did not have these answers - but I did however, have someone I could ask; even if he, at the time, did not have the answers either.

I can remember clearly, now what it had felt like to ask.

But before I get into that, I suppose I should sit you down in the middle of this chaos that is life and explain to you what's happening, and despite the complicated and inner workings of the situation it can be described in a single sentence:

My nanny is, and was, dying.

He'd explained it quite simply - when he sat us all down to read us out the situation, but his explanation is not my story to tell, all that belongs to me is the small amount of time I had spent with her as a child - with Clara Oswald.

I can remember the morning - a crisp, and clean, foggy morning in the beginning of May. I'd miss the bus for school but in the back of my mind I had known my father would excuse it, after all he'd understand why I had missed it. I had walked into the room, and unsurprisingly, he'd been sitting with her - cradling her; his head bent and pressed against the side of hers - she was sleeping, and he was weeping.

I'd known he was weeping – not from the sound, because there was only silence in that room – but from the way his features had switched from clay to porcelain when he lifted his head to greet my gaze; this mad man, this – stranger, who had waltzed into my life.

I had come to know him, quite well; well enough, at the time, to see the sadness that he had covered up.

It was most obvious in his eyes; a strange shade of green and blue, almost grey, that sparkled when they were damp; and the barest hint of tear stains etching their way underneath his eyes.

But however, in that moment; the room seemed to thrive and suddenly, we were ageless – I was not a child, and he was not a man; we were simply – souls, struggling to hold onto the one that was disappearing.

And for a few moments, the room seemed timeless; that the time with Clara would last forever.

But then I had moved, breaking the spell casted over it; and he had spoken, we both knew at the time that we had to move forward, in the end. All we could do was live besides her; we could stop living once she had – but not before.

So in a way of moving forward, I let my bag slide from my shoulder and hit the floor with a dull thump, the sound of unread books and not done homework hitting the floor and bending from within the cocoon made of fabric. I'd crossed the room, and answered his questions; although both of us were not truly engaging in the conversation.

That was, until I asked a question that I already knew the answer to – that he already knew the answer to; but I had asked anyway, simply because it needed to be.

"Can you fix her?"

The lack of proper grammar due to my age was unimportant at the time, it was simply the question itself that held the spotlight as I sat down on the bed – a bed I had sat on many times, but each time since she'd come home, with this man – it felt like the first time, it was a foreign place of rest. The two people housing it were now foreign also.

I'd taken her hand; which surprisingly, was still warm and soft, run my fingers across the back of her hand; felt the veins, felt her knuckles; for I knew that later, touch would be a luxury I would no longer have when it came to her.

And then, I looked up at him; at the man who called himself the Doctor, and yet, could not heal the woman in his arms.

That specific question, had gone unanswered; he'd brushed it away, hiding it under the rug with all the other things no one wishes to see; and now, I understand why he had done it – because, just like humanity, he too was selfish when it came to certain things, and discussing pain, more specifically, Clara's pain, was one of them. He'd been open about it before this day; but now, she was beginning to slip away and so was he. His way of coping was just not to talk about it, to sweep it under the rug.

So I asked another one; in several different forms when he tried to avoid it, but it all boiled down to something quite simple:

"How did this happen?" Or versions of why – and when, and where.

And this; he had answered, verbally, but again, not my story to tell; but however I had gotten a better answer in the look on his face.

When I had asked, I had watched him closely; not knowing it – but documenting his every movement, every change in his feature; and I had seen the way his brow rolled together, how his eyes nearly squeezed shut for a moment – as if, if he closed his eyes the memory would cease to be before him; I watched and learned; he would tell me a story, he would begin at the beginning of course, to make it simple for myself but he told the story from the end – and the middle. He lived in it all, the beginning, middle and end; he thrived in it, and before he began speaking I watched as he lived in it – through all the unspoken memories of Clara Oswald, things he kept for himself; moments of love and adoration.

As he told the story, he would put in an order; but he would also – live in it, and always would.

So I guess, the important thing here is to not how to write a story of Death – but, to show that the people around us are always alive; always living, always _with_ us, in one point of time or another, just as it shows in hand with hand that they are always dead as well, long gone and dust covered stories; ghosts and echoes of themselves.

He did more than show that – he lived in it.

But that however did not stop him from telling it; because the Doctor, being the brilliant and amazing, outstanding man he is, could do both. He had the strength to live, and to tell.

And I only hope I can do the same; so, without further ado this is how the story of Clara Oswald properly begins.

_Sincerely and with love,_

_Artie Maitland._


	2. If you think

She stood a few inches before him; her hand out stretched, going to flick up one of the blinking buttons on the console, except she never manages to touch it; instead, she remains stalk still – her stance rigid, eyes wide and her broken sentence is ringing in his ears.

Her name slams against the roof of his mouth and begins to claw its way forth, but before it leaves his lips she begins moving again – her fingers curl around the small switch, and she flips it; the flickering light stops and comes to rest; her words pick up again, although this time he can't hear her; and he's the one frozen in place, watching her as she rounds the console.

"So, where to next?" She's completely obvious, walking away from him and drifting in the space between console and railing, a soft and gentle smile on her face while she speaks; happiness radiating off her.

He struggles to swallow, but eventually he manages too; and it takes even longer for him to form words once more – and during these precious seconds that are wasted, she gets suspicious and that rushes the process; it makes him work quicker, because he is after all, performing under pressure.

"Clara," He states and she stops from where she stands across from him, blinking and staring at him in confusion; and he holds her gaze, taking in the time to read her expression – not a fleck of fear, or horror in her gaze; something she would have felt, but hidden if she'd been present after those few seconds of being not present.

"Yeah?" She asks, and he continues to stare; and when he says nothing, she prompts him again. "Well, what is it?" He watches her, just for a few more seconds and then he moves.

"Nothing." He answers, pushing away from the railing and rocking forward on his feet as he goes; grabbing the nearest lever; resting on the side of the console, and ignores the way his fingers shake when they wrap around the handle; and he pulls.

He pulls, and tries to ignore the nausea knotting in his stomach.

That had been the first sign.

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This world is forever set in the dim light of the setting sun; the air, always tainted with the after-scent of rain, even during the small amounts of rain it receives.

That's the first thing she notices when she steps from the Tardis, that and the way the ground underneath her feet seems to creak; a mixture between churned up earth and sodden wood, and as the scent claws at her, memories demand to be in front of her mind – and distantly, in the far back of her mind she can hear rubber boots splashing and kicking through puddles, and for a moment she can feel her parent's damp and slippery hands held in hers; for a moment, she feels like a child – uncharacteristically safe.

The wind whips around her and the feeling and noise is gone, replaced by the door creaking; besides her the ground dips as the Doctor steps out, lands besides her. She pauses before asking; squinting at the faint, bright yellow dot on the horizon. "So, where are we then?"

He doesn't bid her an answer at first, instead kneeling and pawing at the ground underneath their feet; and at his silence she digs one of her shoes into the dirt, a faint smile playing at the edges of her lips.

"Doctor," She prompts. He glances up, half in her direction before turning back to the ground; gripping some of the mulch between his finger tips. After a few moments he lets out a soft hum.

"Somewhere on the east coast of the milky way, I imagine." He stands, staring down at the grime between his fingers; rolling the dirt into small balls, watching it crumble and fall apart in the following seconds; and at his side, Clara snorts, a wicked smirk crawling up her features.

"Am I gonna get more than that for an explanation?" She asks, and he opens his mouth to speak; but she never receives an answer because the deep, rich, long scream that fills the air cuts him off, and within seconds the two of them are scrambling through the dirt, desperately trying to run on the make shift slope.

After a few minutes, and in the aftermath of the scream they burst through a mass of ferns, stumbling onto the cobble stones of a road, he waits, a fraction of a second before bursting off to the left, feet pounding on the stones, and she follows.

It's several more minutes of running, and he's the only one who staggers, nearly dipping back into the trench of earth they had arisen – she's like a bullet, constant and steady; the scream pierces the air once more, and as they round the corner the sight before them is – ungenial.

Two men, one drenched in a murky substance, that clung to him like a second skin; the other dry – stood at the edge of the dock, screaming at each other; their accents blurring their words.

"Are – are they speaking Scottish?"

The Doctor sends a glance in her direction; taking in the way her eyebrows hitch and climb towards her hairline, the way her eyes glint with curiosity, and the way her lips form in a tight line, with the barest hint of a curl at the corners entrapped in fascination.

"Well technically they're speaking Tay's, the TARDIS just translates that, and she's got to do something with their accents so – yes, I – I suppose they're speaking Scottish."

She eyes him for a few moments, frowning slightly at the single foreign word as he says it, before turning back to the scene, and taking a few steps forward. Those small steps pick up into a quick run without another word, and he's left to follow as she jogs over to the pair across the dock.

"What seems to be the problem here?" The words flow from her mouth as she comes to a stop, nearly sliding between the two arguing men – who promptly stop fighting and cast hesitant glances in her direction, a nervous tick surfacing at the edges of their eyes; their faces contort quickly, lips curling and almost violent frowns forming on their faces; the tick is gone completely, replaced by a simple form of hostility.

And she plows right through that reaction, crossing her arms and waiting for an answer; not bothering to send a glance in the Doctor's direction when he comes to take his place besides her.

"Well, gentleman, we'd like to help but we haven't got all day." He adds after the silence continues; his tone light and careful but with the same hostility lurking underneath, narrowing his eyes slightly; and half turning around when the silence continues, a mock stance that suggests he'll walk away; but the man drenched in murky liquid, ink like material, speaks.

"There's somethin' in the water." He growls out the simple sentence; his arms lifting from his sides and folding together, shifting in his spot, standing taller; deep brown eyes narrowing.

The Doctor turns back to them, feet scraping across the ground with the motion, he tilts his head slightly as he speaks with the barest hint of a smile on his lips, and a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. "What kind of something?"

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"So, you think it's a fish...But you think it's something else completely?" Clara's finger taps against her lip at the pauses between her words, and once the question is asked the hand returns to her elbow; curling around the joint, her eyes flicker between the small, but well knit, newly formed group.

The one who got dumped in the lagoon sends a small glare in the direction of the man sitting left to him. "I'm telling you," He growls softly, his eyes flicking away from the other fisherman and back to her. "It's not a bloody fish, this _maggot_ here is just too afraid to consider somethin' else!"

The newly named maggot opens his mouth to speak, but the Doctor cuts him off; "Now, there's nothing wrong with being afraid, Alan."

"I never said there was –"

"I know, but still the fact remains. Now, how about we hear Nathan's side of the story?"

Alan promptly shuts his mouth, grumbling quietly as he does so; shifting in his seat, which was nothing more than a log; but continued his silence, despite his obvious dislike for the situation.

"Look, Doc, Clara. It had fins, a tail and a head. It looked like a fish, swam like a fish. Therefore, it's gotta be a fish, yeah a bit bigger than most but nothin' wrong with that. Besides this sort of weather always makes stuff in the water look funny."

Alan gave a snort from where he sat; and pushed himself to stand, "Look." He spits, sending a raw look of hatred, and unadulterated anger in the other man's direction; his lip curling with disgust. "It wasn't a fish. And I know what I saw," He paused, opening his mouth another fraction – words, on the edge of his tongue; but he snapped it shut after a few seconds, turned and kicked his seat; which fell over with a thick snap against the floor of the dock, and stormed away.

After a few seconds of his exit, Clara stands. "Alan," She calls, and in the distance he pauses; but doesn't turn to look back in her direction. "There's only one way we can settle this," and in her pause, he turns around; and from their seats the Doctor and Nathan looked up at her, and she continues speaking; a glint of excitement flickering in the edges of her smile.

"We take the boat back out there and look for it."

Silence meets that statement, and eventually the two fishermen give in with small grumbles of alright, and _okay_.

She then casts a small glance downwards, in the direction of the Doctor; only to do a double take a few seconds later, her face contorting in confusion, but by then the Doctor had removed the expression from his face and was going to stand, the expression of something close to pride.

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And that's how it all began, and ended.

Everything was going fine, the four of them sitting in that boat – two inexperienced, clinging to its wooden edges; two, prepped and ready to strike; but no one was prepared for the large smack that attacked the bottom of the boat and sent them all catapulting into the air, and if they were lucky; into the water. Alan, was a not so lucky one and landed on the edge of the boat before tumbling into the water.

Her head broke the surface, and so did a nervous laugh at the same moment; a noise strangled with freedom, and fear; she was enjoying herself – feeling so, very very alive in this moment; in the smack dab middle of this adventure – but she was still a bit afraid to let herself live in it completely, and that alone was due to the very big, possible fish or not-fish swimming somewhere in the water.

And as she got her bearings, the Doctor broke surface about two feet away – grimacing slightly and lifting one hand from where it drifted to push back the wet locks from his forehead.

That brought on another smile, and a small string of laughter.

Which was promptly joined by his own deep, rich chorus of a laugh as he swivels around in her direction; smiling at her wiggling form, fingers fluttering – pushing back her own mop of hair.

He's smiling up until the moment when she vanishes – ripples spreading over in long and thick motions where she had vanished into the darkness. It takes around two point three seconds for his mind to completely register her absence, and also partly because he waits for her to bring herself back up to the surface; but she doesn't, and by then he's yelling her name – quick spurts of the single word; ignoring the screams of Nathan and Alan behind his back; and in the newly formed chorus, created by the trio he pulls in a breath and dives.

He finds her about ten feet underneath; drifting, eyes heavy lidded and limbs floating uselessly around her; which he grabs, hand curling around her left forearm and pulling her towards him before swimming upwards.

They break the surface with a choking and strangled gasp; she heaves and gags and squirms against him, and he retaliates by not letting go – waiting, for her strangled breaths to reduce themselves to small and natural hiccups and eventually they do; her chest begins to rise in a natural pase, and her throat is no longer clogged. "I'm okay." She sputters, still holding onto him; blinking now, large brown eyes murky with surprise and the substance surround them, the dark and endless water that nips at their clothing; pleading to get closer to skin.

"Is she alright?" Someone hollers from where the boat is currently drifting, he doesn't know if it's Nathan or Alan – he's too focused on her to be able to separate the thick not-really Scottish accents of the men, nor does he particularly care.

He stares down at her; at the slack features her face, the turned down lip and the wide, endless orbs of brown, and makes a decision; a decision that leaps from within his chest and jumps out his throat, fleeing from his mouth without warning.

"You two are on your own!" It's not a yell, but still his voice manages to carry the words over the men and their boat, and with it he begins swimming in the direction of the dock; Clara shifting against him – waking up, in a sort of way; and as he heads for the wooden structure in the distance, their protests become nothing more than muffled background noise.

The only noise he can hear is the slow lap of water, picking and nosing at their skin; and then, the drenched and shaking bundle in his arms speaks.

"Wait, why are we leaving?" Her tone is the ruins of her normally strong willed voice, and dolluped with confusion; but it goes without much fight.

"They don't need our help right now -" Which is a complete lie, the men on the boat could use their help, and probably do _need_ it, but he's not about to put two strangers over her medical state. "It's not immediate and no one's in danger –"

"But the fish –"

"Won't eat them alive." This could also be a lie; but he'd rather pretend that it's not, and so he ignores it. "The main concern right now is what just happened to you, Clara."

"But I'm fine." Her voice slowly regains its strength, and with it so does she; stiffing against him, hands uncurling and curling against his shoulders, fingers pricked with the same confusion in her tone – unsure if she should stay, or if she should let go. Also is she can support herself, which she doubts she can in the sucking water around them.

The next few seconds are met by silence – and also the dock, which he leaves her holding onto as he climbs out; and then once he's on shore he turns and pulls her up.

"You're not fine. People don't just randomly _stop working_." His fingers curl around her biceps and pull gently; her arms do a mirror imagine, fingernails digging into his damp shirt and pulling at it as he lifts her, creating new creases in the fabric.

The water makes a sucking noise as her frame is lifted from it completely; shoes scrambling against the already damp dock, and her hands get a little tighter – clinging to him for a few seconds, her eyes flicker with fear of falling back into the water; and so, he pulls her closer, stepping backwards and underneath the pair of feet the wood bends.

"Alright, well I _feel_ fine." She steps back then, arms coming to curl around herself; she frowns up at him, and the fear in her eyes, in the very far back of those dark pupils is replaced by a challenge.

"Feeling, and being are two, very, very different things." His hands move in sharp gestures, gestures without meaning and as soon as he realizes he's doing it, his hands snap back to his side; folding up underneath his biceps, out of sight; hiding. But it's too late, she's noticed and she's smirking at his embarrassment over his expressive habits, and the smirk turns to a smile that melts into her words as she begins to speak again.

"Look, I'm fine, alright?" Her tone is careful – gentle, the smile on her lips bends around her words and as she speaks she uncurls her arms; hands leaving their position on the tops of her ribs, arms swaying out and fingers flaring at her sides; she makes a point of wiggling her fingers. "See, I'm fine, alright?" And at his silence she continues speaking, her voice getting a little stronger with her own confidence that she's winning this would-be argument. "Now let's finish what we started."

His lips twist downwards, and then to the side; but somehow the words manage to snake past them, sliding out carefully one by one without his permission, his sentence ending with a grumble of resent; but the resent in the noise doesn't block out the mirth tinkling in the back of his eyes as he looks down at her. "Alright, just – just tell me if you change your mind or if you start to feel worse –" It's cut off by that low noise, and she's granted with a smile; a smile that's free of resentment, of caution – which is something that's been thrown to the wind at this point.

And she beams up at him; trickles of water trailing and shrinking across her features, "Thank you, Doctor." She says after a few seconds; before turning and walking over to the edge of the dock, which is a little less than a foot away; taking a seat for a moment before sliding into the water with a small _plop_ and then she's swimming away – a distant blip and bob as she heads in the direction of the boat.

She doesn't know about her memory lapse, but then again, he doesn't know if it's connected to her loss of movement.

He lifts a hand to his damp sleeves, pushing them back; and walks to the edge of the dock – his mind is thick, and as dense as the gurgling dark water before him; questions hum in the backdrop, along with the fear that growls and snarls at the very edge of his mind – because he knows, that she's more than your average person, she's the woman twice dead – she's the _impossible_ girl.

He swallows and jumps into the water; opening his eyes and looking around – at the same, dark green, ugly smears of brown, smoky never ending sea; with the occasional flicker of a shadow, and he can hear laughter and shouts bubbling above the surface; and after a few seconds, he swims upwards; sucking in air as the surface shatters around him.

And as he exhales – he let's go of his concern; he lets it go, curling away from his skin like the mist surrounding him, he holds onto a little bit of it; the average amount, he'll keep a watchful eye over her.

But besides that, they'll continue what they're doing; and right now, that's finding the would-be fish, or completely opposite; the not-fish which Alan is so insistent on.

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_Four Months Later_

She's laughing, walking before him and at the same time, a good distance – a few footsteps at most -behind him; they round the console. "Look, I'm telling you it's a perfectly good place, I don't see why you're so insistent on _not _stopping, you're normally all about that." Her hands gesture in the air, hands shaking – almost jazz hands as she rattles on about him constantly insisting on stopping in places that are galaxies and decades away from their original, insisted destination.

He turns, and glances over his shoulder at her; her form disappearing and dispersing behind the glass column in the center of the console, before reappearing after a few seconds, but the column distorts it until she's in the clear completely, dragging out the colors of the clothes she's wearing, casting her skin a few deeper shades, images – flecks of color dancing within the glass, up until the moment she's a few inches away, and by then the console is playing with the Doctor's reflection.

"Because," He begins; gesturing with his hands in a wide, opening movement; and yanking a lever when they appear at his side as he continues to walk around. "I don't see the point in going all the way back to earth for some _ice cream_, when we could honestly go to a planet made of it –" She snorts and shakes her head, smiling slightly.

"It won't be the same," She chirps, her words turning around the words; stressing each syllable.

He stutters in his steps, opens his mouth to give a reply, lips turning downwards with mirth and humor; but a noise stops him – a solid thump, almost a crash, directly – two footsteps - behind him, and in the aftermath, there is only silence, and above their heads the TARDIS begins to hum, an almost concerned tone.

Clara's body lays in a crumpled heap on the floor; her head tilted to one side; eyes shut, her arms curled like broken wings against her sides, her legs stretched out before her; one slightly put forward than its companion, a last, desperate attempt to reach him before she fell – she knew it was going to happen, and went to tell him.

And above the horror show, the TARDIS continues to thrive; the room fills with sound – one, strong, single hum that pushes past the previous noise, he can easily recognize the tone as sorrow filled and fearful; but in the same moment, he doesn't recognize it – can't recognize anything except the form of the woman laying on the floor, but by then, he's moving; rushing to her side and kneeling before her; hands fluttering – cupping her face, gripping her shoulders, patting at her cheeks; and her name stumbles and streams from his lips like a martyr, without warning and control.

"Clara," He breaths _finally_, but his throat is still too tight for the amount of air he needs – and so does she, free of the problem he's having, her chest lifting in a small, steady rhythm.

As their chests begin to rise to the same beat – his mind goes into auto pilot; lifting her from the floor and dashing down the steps; into the halls of the Tardis, his feet and ship leading him to the single room he has in mind.

His main focus; the center of his thoughts is running over symptoms – thing's she's eat in the past hour, days, weeks – anything, that could have caused this; but he doubts that the things he's looking for now will be the cause at all; he knows and fears that this will be a far deeper rooted problem.

And he's accepted that, he's flicking through diagnoses when he steps into the infirmary.

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No, no, _no_.

This can't be right.

But then again, what is right defined as, in medical terms? Obviously healthy, but beside's that fact, what can _right_ be defined as?

Certainly not this.

His head rises slowly; his heartbeats pound and roar in his ears as he looks from the slip of paper in his hands, to the girl laying in the pristine, white medical bed to his left.

She's dying, but then again, they all are, and some just do it faster than most – those with different brands of cancer, the children who are born with terminal illnesses, the people caught in the wreckage of car accidents – and now, her clock has sped up too.

The thoughts bounce, and etch and scar into his mind – reason battles against wits, wits against logic. Maybe the TARDIS is wrong, but then again, when is his ship ever wrong when it comes to something like this?

He swallows and it feels like smoke is being dragged downwards; broken shards of glass that shatter and sprinkle into his lungs; coating them in a imaginary reflective light; his stomach turns and grinds itself into dust caused by the knots that are just that tight; fear trickles from the sliver of ice imbedded into the flesh of his heart; seeping into his back and down his spine, and the same ice then shoots up his veins like some sort of addictive drug; into his hands, and fingertips, causing his limbs to shake, and for a moment he wonders where the nearest bucket is – because he's going to vomit, there's no avoiding that.

But, he never gets the chance to empty his already wasteland of a stomach, because Clara begins to stir; hands twitching from where he had placed them on her stomach; her eyes dart and move around underneath their lids, which peel open slowly in the following seconds.

And by then he's reeling, falling into auto pilot without the slightest clue of if there's even a net over the edge; he greets her with a smile, and a soft hello – despite how it feels like acid, trailing along his face; ripping and peeling back the skin of his features and how his teeth feel like daggers grinding against each other when he reveals them; but somehow he manages to remain a constant and unsuspecting smile for her, he manages to keep his voice low and soft and _calm_ as though he's talking to a child.

She frowns and squints up at him, shifting in her neatly made bed; pulling the blankets from their tightly wrapped corners and creating creases in the fabric, her hands twitch from where they rest on top of her belly. He watches as she swallows, her neck bobbing slightly – her lips are chapped; the skin torn apart and cracked – he imagines her tongue feels swollen and the skin too tight on it in her mouth; his is a mirror image, but just a little worse, tinted with a copper echo of blood – he bit into it when the TARDIS had reluctantly and slowly churned out the piece of paper that held the diagnoses that carried all of the symptoms on its back.

"What happened?" She whispers, the same bright pink tongue darting out across her lips before retreating back within her mouth, she clears her throat; the small noise just a clip of ragged vocal chords rubbing against each other; her eyes flutter with the movement, fingers curl on her clothing, digging little crevasses into the almost silk-like material.

He has to fight the urge to vomit on the spot; dropping his gaze just a fraction, looking at the light that dances on top of the folds of fabric, focuses on them for a few moments – allows them to wash away or dampen the rocky shores of his mind before lifting his gaze once more.

"You fell," He tells her; keeping his voice, and struggling to do so, calm and low – soft, like she's a wild animal he might scare away any moment; and in the distance of his vision little smears of pure white light continue to dance.

Her squint becomes more prominent as she continues to stare up at him; the lines in her forehead do the same, etching deeper into the skin and becoming more like stone; "Well that's odd," She mumbles her tone laced with confusion and her eyes flick away from the wall and to him – obviously looking for answers, "Why'd I do that?" Her chin lifts slightly when she asks, and in the same movement she nestles deeper into the sheets.

Waiting, patiently - for a story, an explanation; like a child waiting for a bed time story, only this is so far from that prime example; it's a horror filled, drastic and desperately destroyed beginning – the kind in horror movies where you scream at the protagonist to not go on the closet, to leave the window locked, to remain indoors – inside that room; but in the end, and you always knew it, they don't listen to your screams – they unlock the window, go outside; run out of the room on quick and jerky feet.

Horror, regret and sorrow knot themselves together; turning into a ugly destructive mass and shove their way out of his hearts and towards his throat; smashing against bones and clogging everything in their path as they go; and for a moment, and several after it, he can't speak; he can't do anything – all he can do is keep his face free of any horror and for the moment at least- keep the destruction of their world – his and Clara's, newly formed, fresh and gentle; beautiful in every way, even in the shadows lurking around it; and so very livid – at bay.

She takes his silence slowly; the frown becoming a cliff face in her forehead – she'd be quicker to jump on this had she not just woken up – and had she not have a fatal disease pumping through her veins.

"Doctor?" She asks; his silence continues and she pushes herself up slightly – he finds himself wishing that he could tell her not to move, to remain still; but his throat is swollen up like a balloon – he can't speak, not yet. "Come on chin boy, what is it?" She prompts, and he thinks distantly of how she's using humor as a mask – even if she doesn't know it, she's unconsciously protecting herself from the oncoming damage of the situation, creating humor with the damp air around them.

He swallows and falls a little bit further into the abyss, limbs reeling around him as he goes; hands fluttering and desperately stretching outwards for a handhold. His eyes flick, from her and to anywhere else and back again; whatever sort of protection he had created crumbles now; discovering quickly that there is no net at the bottom of the cliff he's fallen off of, everything begins to fall and burn; because she continues to look at him; sitting up all the way now, and he could never stop her from being involved in anything that she insisted upon being involved in. "I'm alright, aren't I?" She asks; real concern in her tone now, her eyebrows hitching upwards, eyes glossing slightly with confusion; she knows now, that humor will not relax the situation.

He swallows again and forces himself to look at her – forces himself because every single particle that he is made off is screaming, begging not to have to do this; but he does it anyway; simply because he must, he owes this to her, to look her in the face – because the first time he never saw her face, and the second time he lied – and tell her that she's dying.

"No," He clips, swallows again – tries to build something in his mind, a sort of structure; anything. Anything in the ruins and debris that's swarming his mind; he needs a safe spot – a safe house, some sort of cradle in the raging sea.

He can't. "You're not." His eyes begin to dip downwards; and he won't allow it, so his gaze snaps back upwards and he takes in the sight of her before him; face sharp and pale, scrubbed clean of any hint of color, features whipped clean of any emotion; her lips are parted slightly and her shoulders are stiff, rigid, frozen in place – she's holding her breath, waiting for him to finish his sentence.

"You're dying, Clara." It's on the edge of a breath, a firecracker of a whisper.

And with that; the destruction begins – the world crumbles and explodes and shatters and rips apart all in half a second; the bright blue sky turns a deep black, and without stars, the plants and animals, possible relationships – anything that had been living, dies on the spot; a reflection of her far future.

She remains perfectly still from where she sits across from him – hands folded neatly in her lap; hair cupping her face; her cheeks slowly begin to regain their color, smeared shades of light pink dust the soft skin of her cheeks.

She blinks and swallows.

Her voice is raw when she speaks; naked and dancing on the edge of fear and tears – mixed with deep rich sorrow.

"That's not funny." She growls to keep her voice from cracking; and he can see the real fear – the unadulterated stuff that makes up the darkest nightmares; that comes in the faces of grief and death, begin to seep into her features; her eyes get a little wider, her parted lips begin to tremble; her frame begins to shake like she's caught in a hurricane – and her mouth shuts, then opens; a noise escapes, a strangled squeak.

"I wish I was trying to be funny," His gaze dips once more without his permission, and he wishes he was, he wishes with every bit and does it truthfully that this was some sort of sick practical joke, but it's not, instead it's just another harsh piece - moment of reality.

He finds himself staring at the floor – at her feet; barefoot – had he removed her shoes? Or was she already barefoot when they'd walked around the console? In distant sections of his thoughts he can hear the thick, audible smack of feet on glass, a beat, a happier tone and he has his answer. Not that it matters though.

Nearly white, his face drained of color, he lifts his head and his eyes slowly return to hold her gaze. As he does this he rises; his feet shuffling against the floor as he goes, the only sound in the stark noiseless room; the scuffle echoing off the walls after a few seconds of continued silence. "Clara," He begins and then – then the words shrivel up and die in his mouth, and he's left choking on the remains and trying to spit them out; his hands lift from his sides and come to grip each other before him, resting against his stomach.

"I am so, so sorry." His voice cracks; it's smothered, thick with unshed tears that sparkle on the rims of his eyes.

And she's a mirror image before him, except her tears fall; trailing slowly and silently from the corners of her eyes; which are now endlessly wide deep brown orbs that stare and cling to the fare pale white wall across the room; her shoulders lift in a single inhale and drop a few seconds later. Her lips part as the breath floats into the air and her gaze flicks up to him; and the tears continue to fall.

"You – you can fix this right?" Her brow is furred; getting pushed closer together with every second – every single breath, and with every breath she continues to unravel; frame getting a little bit more shaker. Hope, a faint echo of the emotion at least, glimmers in the far back of her eyes; he can see it, tucked underneath the reflection of light, but as her lips stick together and fall apart again, it's gone.

She's just grasping for straws now.

"You've – we've got a time machine, we can just pop to the future –"She swallows and her shoulders hitch; a strangled noise grinds its way out her throat, and she nearly hiccups; her eyes flutter and blink fiercely, shutting out the tears and opening in hope with seeing the world clearly once more; but panic sets in as her vision remains blurred. She chokes and gasps for air, and all the while desperately tries to continue speaking; her words in frantic, pleading and stringy sentences as she continues to stare up at him.

"We can just find an antidote. I'll be fine." Her voice cracks.

He swallows; but he can't swallow past the lump in his throat; the thing that plagues his words and neck and collar bone; that seeps into his chest like mold; and begins to rot out his hearts; clinging to his blood and hitching a ride, digging deep into flesh and sending annual dispersing of deep, soul wrenching emotions, strong enough to sway him where he stands; turning his stomach into a thing of rope, and then make knots with it; turning everything inside and outside into an ugly mass.

All by simply being; that is what grief and dread and sorrow does.

"I can't."

Her eyes flutter once; and then blossom, going impossibly wide – shock and disbelief smashing into her features, her jaw drops and her shoulders still completely – she's a statue in that moment entrapped in her own skin by horror and newly learned information.

And then she moves; she swallows, and she speaks, with a straining tone and her hands have snaked from her path and now curl around the edge of the table, her knuckles a sharp white.

"What do you mean – you can't –" Her voice lifts and sinks, a leaf fluttering and trapped in the wind; desperately trying not to break or crack, or get crushed but powerless to avoid its fate if that is what must happen.

Her voice breaks off in a stutter of syllables, and the noise continues, up until the moment he begins to move, slowly, just a few centimeters forward; his feet dragging along the floor but his hands disconnect and float apart; coming to cup her shoulder and the other resting on the side of her face; and he bends; adjusting for her height, moving until they're face to face. A few inches from being forehead to forehead, or nose to nose.

"This, disease." He begins; his voice is soft and careful, as though he's telling a child a bed time story rather than giving a young woman her death sentence. "Comes from the future, and I mean far, _far_ out there, past when the original human race –" His hand on her cheek gets a little tighter, sharp and vivid lines press into his forehead and for a moment he grinds his jaw as he manages to grit, _the original human race_. "That's you, has been gone for eons." He forces his eyes to remain open – to focus on her; her reactions, her understanding of this new apocalyptic brand of reality.

"But can't –" She begins to speak again, words and feeble attempts of sentences falling from her jutted out, trembling lip; which she sucks in after a few seconds of a broken sentence; realizing her mistake and what his silence must mean. Her shaking continues and her eyes gloss over once more with fresh tears that balance on the tight rope of the edges of her eyes, and after a few seconds slide her cheek, slowly; clawing and dragging its way down the skin, leaving a faint trail of moister as it goes; and all he can do is watch and try to sweep in the dust that was once his bones and heart and emotions into a sort of restricted area so that he can function again.

With the dust of everything he is entrapped in a ragged little circle of tape, he trusts himself enough to speak. "I, will do everything I can, to ensure that this disease will not –" And he fails; he cannot speak, the reality of the situation crashes into his shoulders like a comet; and he can't breathe. Panic and fear grip at his lungs and he's stunned himself into silence once more.

"Kill me as quickly?" She offers after the birth, death and life of the universe, her voice is small and faint; so very distant, as though she's talking about another rather than herself.

He swallows, and something drops on his face – something wet; the ceiling must be dripping. He could have sworn he told the TARDIS to stop putting the swimming pool on top of other rooms.

"Yes," He whispers – another drop, followed by three, quick little rapped trickles, little heartbeats; quicker than the average human pace, but quick enough to belong to him.

And the silence continues and for a moment, for the single moment in their new world; that has crashed and burned with the release of this information, there is something close to peace. Just for a moment; the small cupped area of the infirmary is the still point in the turning world.

"Doctor," And then they're spinning again; flames licking at their bodies, a haywire of emotions shooting through them and they're powerless to stop it.

He can't answer; so instead, he swallows and tries to drop her gaze – but he can't, so instead of that, he nods and waits for her to continue.

"You're crying." Her voice is a whisper again; bending underneath the invisible weight of the room they're in.

His hand – the one that had been curled around her shoulder flashes up in the direction of his face, his fingers curl around the edges of his eyes; finger pads spreading across his cheekbones and smear the remains of tears. "I suppose I am,"

She nods; and before him a tremor racks her body; and with the aftermath of the tremor, the shakes; he all but flings his arms around her and pulls her against him; pressed chest to chest, he clings to her – hugs her, her head cupped in the curve made by his neck and shoulder; murmurs apologies against her hair and neck, over and over.

She shakes against him; and the sound of her crying slowly builds and comes to fill the room; an orchestra of wails and howls of sorrow; something she should never have had to create, not again. The noise builds and builds, and dips as it becomes muffled by the fabric that covers his shoulder; the thick wool coat absorbing some of the noise. But it still continues to bounce off the sharp white walls, amplifying it instead of silencing it. She continues to shake against him; although the sound slowly bleeds from the evidence of her visceral sorrow, grief and dread, other brands of evidence still remain.

The strangled phrases of pleas and curses on a long gone God, and masses of burning gas that surround and burn miles away from his ship. Her strangled and ripped up words fill his ears and roar; and threaten to over take him, to pull him into the deep ocean and into the currents and never let go. To make him distant.

But he can't do that – he can't let go; he can no longer be distant, and if he's honest with himself, he has been, just a little bit. Not entirely honest – not that he ever was before, but now it's gotten worse, since his ponds all dried up and the ducks were gone for good.

Because he must be here, he must remain planted firmly in this moment for her; even if she is not, and she has every right to be miles and miles, and planets and galaxies away.

She's dying; she's free to go wherever she pleases.

And he will remain by her side, drifting in her shadow until she's gone completely.

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Somehow they end up on the floor; it's no real surprise, in the end.

His mind resurfaces slowly, he can somehow drag himself away from his sorrow momentarily; even if he does it kicking and screaming; and can only make it half way, until he finally gives up even if it still coats his skin; a grimy, heavy weight that cannot and refuses to be lifted, and the thought – _She's dying. She's dying. She's dying._ – plays like a record stuck on a loop over and over in his head, along with various extra phrases such as he can do _nothing_ about it, as a background track, but, despite it all that's not his main focus at the moment.

His mind is a dark place, it's muddled and dirty and it aches; everything aches, he's tired – the kind of tired he felt walking away from the sharp, pure white wall; and again in the moment of cradling his best friend in his arms at the doorstep of her home, then walking from her room with nothing more than a simple wave; then watching his wife die, before she was even that to him, when she was _nothing_ to him, just a stranger and having to live with her afterwards with that single bit of information burning in the back of his mind every single moment, and the burning echo of the screams of Amy and Rory's names in his throat, knowing that the moment they were gone, he'd never see them again.

His mind is a storm.

But now their world is too; and they're stuck in the wreckage of it, something ripped and torn apart with no hope of being repaired, left to survive in the ruins and ashes of the forests and landscapes and mountains and a once pure blue sky, now turned charcoal black without a single etch of light in it.

He tilts his head back and it thunks rather loudly against the cabinet; again he is reminded that they are sitting on the floor; which is increasingly cold underneath them. The only warm thing is the woman cradled between his legs and arms; like a protective cage, her legs are outstretched, toes gently resting on his ankles; she's pressed against his chest, arms crossed and resting across her belly, limp like a sparrows broken wings; her head shoved, not nesting or resting, but shoved into his chest; directly below his jaw, in the center of the space between his hearts – which continue to squeeze painfully with every passing moment.

She whimpers, and stirs slightly and it dawns on him – she's asleep, she's _cried_ herself to sleep.

And it won't be the first time.

No, there'll be many more, just like this night.

He swallows and feels drips on his cheekbones; sharp splatters, and he doesn't need to lift and hand to know he's crying. He doesn't want to move at all, in honesty; he wants to stay here and hold her – protect her, and hide her in this room, curled up together against the cabinets, remain in this spot as if the disease is something like a Time Zombie lurking in the bowels of his ship.

But he can't; so with heavy and nearly useless limbs; he pushes himself to stand and lifts her, shifting her weight in his arms as he goes, holding and supporting her so that he's cradling her when he's managed to stand.

He doesn't have to walk far; just out the room, down the hall way that's about five feet in length, turn a corner; open a door, walk into the room, to the bed; set her on it, and fall besides her.

The skin on his arms feels like it's being ripped off as the delicate sheets come to bend around him, cradling his form and straining the mattress underneath them; torn away in long, ugly strands; and the contents underneath are on fire, the blood bumping in his veins bumps together and creates sparks, and then the sparks engulf his muscles and flesh and fat and use it all as fuel.

He wants to scream and sob, and fight and yell.

But he can't.

So instead, he rolls over onto his side, ignoring the creaks and protests of the bed far too small for two occupants and looks at the sleeping form, still clothed, beside him, now nearly nose to nose with her. Her features are slack, but still painted with grief. This is what she'll look like from now on - he realizes slowly; it's info that pokes and prods at his heels and sinks into his skin and crawls up on nerves and veins and bones; up his spine and spreading into his system like something spilled into the water as it goes, creeping into his hearts and turning into ice once it gets inside the twin organs.

Even when she's asleep, it'll be as though she carries the weight of the universe, their newly broken little world, on her shoulders.

She carries weight, just not that one – not that brand; but instead, she is now a carrier of death – they all are, but now she's got so much baggage to drag along with her she'll never make it across the air port.

She'll be crying by the time she reaches the exit, plane long gone and already have forgotten about her and then, with tears in her eyes and aching fingers and snarled joints she'll do one, very simple thing - just give up.

He swallows and lifts a hand – the same thing in his cracks open his chest and blooms and shoots upwards, forcing tears to slam against the edges of his eyes with new vengeance and then he's left to fight the urge to sob, and wail and _howl_.

But he doesn't do that; instead, he inhales and _breathes _even if it's strained and ragged as he pulls it into his mouth, and feels like razor blades sliding down his throat – he does it anyway, because it's the only thing he can do.

He inhales again in the aftermath, in the flood of blood that travels downwards into his lungs, coating and clinging to them; he holds his breath to keep the sound of pain from escaping, and that piece of information broke his chest flows into his back and splatters across the wall made up of skin.

He sinks his teeth into his lip; and grinds his jaw together – till the noise of his snarling and grinding teeth is vivid in his ears, and bites his lip until a real metallic, copper taste floods his mouth; and this all continues until the fire at the edges of his eyes flickers out – and the water has dried up, not a single tear remains to be shed.

And then he lets the ruin of his lip fall from his mouth, and carefully unlocks his jaw; the bones aching and muscles protesting, and his hands previously numb and useless begin to move. One hand rising and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, before returning to its original location like a shunned dog, fingers curling and fisting in the loose torn up sheets.

His fingers press into the thick, deep lines of the blankets and his mind is forever stretched and crumbled, thoughts reeling and slowing down, shattering, like they were made of glass and suddenly have been hurled by an angry hand at a wall and then ending as they burst into shards and a mixture of dust, floating towards the ground with all the time in the world; pulling him back down from wherever he may have originally been, all with simple, single phrases: he's cried, now there's only one thing left to do – for today, for now.

So, he sleeps.

Because he won't be getting anymore, anytime soon.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

The bed sheets are far too warm.

The air is cold, but heated – it buzzes and vibrates softly, the pitch changes on occasion, becoming nearly violent.

His mind is dull; but sharp, painfully sharp and frigid – with one thought on repeat, and a roaring background. He swallows; and slowly opens his eyes, even the dark faint outlines of the ceiling above his head seem like too much to see, to sharp, to vibrant; too far away and too full of possibility; the ceiling could collapse, it could stretch it could move, change color or texture, it could disappear.

And then what would he be staring at? Certainly not a night sky.

His gaze dips, and slowly rolls across the room on a breeze; he can make out the faint echo of a blanket torn across his chest – the light is closer to the floor than to the ceiling, and as he carefully moves, because he must, not out of choice in the slightest – but he knows deep within the instincts of his hearts that if he doesn't start moving now, he probably never will again; because this sorrow, this grief and pain and dread is here to stay – it's rooted itself deep into his limbs; biting at his calves and digging into his forearms, clinging with gluttony and greed; making itself crystal clear that it won't be leaving or going anywhere anytime soon, and refusing to dim the light it reflects; the light that dots, blinks in and out, clouding his vision.

It's enough to make him want to curl into a ball and never move again – but he must, he needs to start; so he pushes himself onto his elbows and looks at the outline, at the echoes and ghosts of everything around them.

Clara, lays to his right; half on top of the thin blanket that's been tossed across his form, half under it. She also no longer wears the t-shirt and pants she'd been wearing earlier, but instead they've been replaced by thin, light blue pajamas.

The pants are put on properly; hanging loosely around her hips, but it's the top that's a mess; buttons in the wrong holes instead of their corresponding ones, the fabric surrounding the buttons, the few that managed to get into any holes, is scrunched up and wrinkled, loose threads dangling and sprouting up from the buttons themselves.

Reality slowly begins to form in his mind, speeding up as it becomes pieced together; she got up, began to change, and then her thoughts returned – caused her hands to shake, her breath to come in too fast; and she was shaking so hard she couldn't even button her shirt; so after a few seconds she gave up, desperate and fearful; and her fear was caused by something she couldn't escape by dashing from the room so instead she threw herself into the bed – desperate for sleep, desperate to escape the new reality with sweet unconsciousness, from the overpowering dread pressing down and for a moment, the bed seemed to hold that relief; and she took it.

He swallows and looks at her curled up tight form; at the tension in her body, even in sleep, a sharp frown remains on her face; her eyebrows pinched together. She lays on her stomach, while he lays – or laid, on his back.

He pushes himself to sit up completely; and swings his legs around; but doesn't rise, instead he sits; completely still for a few moments, hearts slowly pounding in his chest; pumping cold blood through his veins and as he sits, he finds it difficult to breath.

He inhales; fills his lungs with air which does little good to unwrap the vile entrapping his lungs, and with slightly shaky hands he removes his jacket; sets it on the floor, letting it crumple into a pitch black pile, the folds and texture fading away into nothing from where it now rests on the floor. He then removes his vest; and lays that – somewhere, in the nothingness of the surrounding room, and once it's out of sight; it's unimportant, stuck somewhere in the past, discarded without a single thought.

The bed shifts when he moves; lifting his feet too him, forward and closer, to peel back his shoes; fingers gripping tightly at the heels of the polished, shiny black smooth surface – he takes them off, and sets them gentle on the floor; despite the deep, inner need to send them hurling across the room, a dreadful and grief filled act; but it's something physical, a way to express the turmoil inside. Without having to give an explanation as to why; because no one wants to question, or dig a little deeper into acts fueled with grief, and sorrow; simply because they fear it, they can see what they could become if pushed far enough.

They tinkle softly as they settle on the deep, rich wood floor; vanishing into the darkness like his other layers.

He then keeps his feet cradled in his lap, one by one; and peels of his socks, before tucking them gentle into his shoes; his common sense returning slowly, crawling back as though it itself had just woken from sleep. No fit, of rage could ever fix this; nothing physical will change this, despite it being a physical thing – a chemical – that caused it.

He sits; and his veins burn, his blood boils; his hearts clench painfully; and his thoughts threaten to consume him.

_She's dying. She's dying. She's dying. She's dyi-_

He rips the needle from the record as he spins his legs around; laying them once more before him on the bed, and then he sinks into the mattress, shifting as carefully as he can manage; sinking into the pillows, he waits a few seconds before pulling and tugging at the blanket. He drags it along, pulling it over his form; up slightly the section of his chest before pulling it again once more, placing it over Clara; the blanket slips, and clings to the far edge of his back – now mostly draped over her.

He moves again, the bed creaks once more; and he's laying on his side, looking at her form a few inches away; watching the steady rise and fall of her back, or at least the sliver of faint light that is reflected from somewhere as it dances across it in the darkness. A sign, a beacon in the darkness that she is still here; she's not gone yet, she isn't fading, she's solid and steady a stone, statue; strong and stable, unwavering despite the circumstance.

He inhales and lifts a hand from where it rests further down on the bed, closer to his own side and slowly moves it, coming to cup her face – just for a moment, the barest hint of touch; and the pad of his thumb gently comes to stroke the harsh edges on her forehead and after a few seconds she lets out a soft sigh; and the lines melt away, she's content and sleeping peacefully.

With the soft and gentle exhale, his chest expands; and suddenly, he can't get enough air (not that he had enough to begin with) but now it's impossible to breath and his thoughts are insisting on joining him in this moment; scratching at the locked door that keeps them out; wanting to plague and taint his moment of calmness in the middle of a hurricane, in the pause of the storm; in between the sections of rain and turmoil.

He curls inwards on himself ever so slightly; digging his left arm underneath a colorless pillow and dragging it closer; tucking it underneath his head, and bunching it up in the process. The world is beginning to slow as he continues to shift; burrowing his head into the pillow, into the soft and welcoming fabric; and in all honesty, it doesn't seem that welcoming – it feels torn, ripped apart and tainted with the – with him. He realizes with a start; and the world clips, it flickers and continues to slow; winding down, second by second; tugging at him, pulling him along ever so gently, a thing stuck in the wind.

He nestles into the pillow in the crook of his arm, and rests his head next to hers; she's distant, features soft and delicate in the low light; she's careful, relaxed; peaceful, free of the plague of reality in this moment; the calmness and unconcern that comes with sleep, or at least; with the acceptance of crying yourself to sleep, the rid of some of the weight.

She inhales softly and shifts in her sleep; curling in on herself just a little bit more before sinking into the mattress once more, she's gone completely; drifting and tucked away, safe momentarily.

He finds himself wishing that he could fix this; desperately, that he could hop into the future, eons from now and just walk into a pharmacy, that isn't really a pharmacy, and just pick up a bottle of pills – or a injection, and call it good. End of story, close the book; end the chapter, call it over with – but he can't do that, because for _her_ there is no bottle of pills; no injection, no magic snap of fingers that can rid her off this alien disease.

His chest lifts; his hands twitch, his fingers itch to touch her; as if, also by doing so he could remove the disease, but he knows he can't; because like a broken record his mind swings around again, he can't cure her. He can't fix her – can't save her. If anything, he's broken her; given her, her demise on a silver platter.

He swallows and watches her face contort softly in her sleep before relaxing; lips parting with another breath, and it hits him like a sledge hammer to the chest – she looks, safe. Content; peaceful. And she _is_ all those things in this moment, sleeping; tucked away.

And for now, that's enough for him – that she's safe, just for now, but it's enough.

With that; he closes his eyes, doesn't really have a choice in the matter. One second their open and the next he's enclosed in the darkness and left staring at the back of his eyelids; and then he's asleep, her peaceful demeanor being the last thing he sees.

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He wakes to the sound of wisps of breath – quick, short, cut off and broken little gasps; wrapped up with a gurgle, wet and sloppy and destroyed – destruction that grows as the right side of the bed quakes violently, stilling for a few seconds; blanket's nestling against each other, fabric shifting against fabric in the silence and stillness before the tremor reappears from where they had been lurking in the shadows – the mattress shakes again for a few seconds before stilling once more; and then it happens all over again.

He can count the tremors; the shakes, three in a span of ten seconds; each one changing in range, from violent to almost soft; more in control, power and self control that flicks and flaps like a flame; he comes to a single conclusion - she doesn't know that her poorly muffled gasps and whispers and shakes have woken him – she still, in the dimness and dreary, half-awake part of her mind thinks she's alone; when reality she's not, and never will be; unless that's what she wants.

Wordlessly he begins to move; having rolled onto his back when he drifted off, he shifts onto his side, the bed underneath them squeaking slightly at the movement the blanket pins into his side and clings against him; making every single, grace filled movement awkward and stumbling; and as he settles, Clara has gone silent before him; but the air vibrates, her tensed up form just a few inches away from his own; she's holding her breath, sinking her teeth into her lip and trying so desperately not to cry.

He continues moving; giving up on trying to be graceful, and ignoring the damned blanket wrapped around his chest and the way it _refuses _to let go, and just moves; ignoring the squeaky bed beneath them and worms his arms around her; and pulls her against him, squeezing and pressing chest to chest; although, it's bundle-of-arms, to chest.

She remains rigid against him in the few seconds remaining after the swift movement, and slowly she begins to unknot; her legs relax, sink into the bed and he can feel her shoulders sag underneath his forearms, and her arms curl and stretch against his cloth covered chest; hands switching around, pawing their way about the darkness, but finding themselves unable to shake out and return the hug, she settles for gently laying her hands on his shoulders, and the top of her forehead comes to rest on the side of his jaw, tilted slightly forward.

One hand slowly uncurls – his right hand, from her left shoulder – and begins to rub large, circular movements on the top of her back, gently brushing across the surface; deepening slightly as it goes; as though the emotions and turmoil is something that if he rubs hard enough, and long enough he can scrub away; but he knows, they all know; problems don't work that way.

One thing he can rub away however, is the final knot – her emotions, and slowly she begins to shake against him; her hands curling in like talons, digging into his shoulders and her lips part – a strangled gasp wiggling its way into her mouth, and a whimper follows; and then she's trembling, her grip only getting tighter against him as sobs wrack her body.

And he only pulls her closer; whispering things against the side of her head – apologies (_I'm so, so sorry._), encouragements (_It's alright, let it out, Clara. Let it go_.), comforting lies (_Everything is alright. You are alright – We are, alright. Everything's gonna be o-kay._), and she just clings to him; whimpers and strings of noises, and struggled, ragged attempts at words.

He knows, in the back of his mind, that in any other circumstance she would leave him to go and cry – but her limbs, are far too heavy to move. If she were to stand from the bed; she'd fall over and collapse, sag against the floor; like something tossed into the darkness of a room, unforgotten from the moment until stumbled upon later – pressed and chained down with the new weight of grief and death, sorrow and dread; and with each one of those new, soul-shattering emotions, comes the added weight of questions, of demands, of rage and reality – _Why am I still trying? What's the point? Why did this happen to me? What did I do wrong? Why am I so unlucky? Why – Why – Why_.

A small, gutted noise falls from her mouth; she crushes it half way, smashing her lips together and grinding her jaw; sucking in violent amounts of air through her nose, nearly hiccupping as she does. Her fingers flex and curl around him, her right hand slowly removing itself from his shoulder and brushing down his bicep – fluttering up and down the muscle, fingernails dragging along his shirt as she goes; she growls, a desperate filled noise – laced with frustration, she's attempting and struggling to get herself under control.

"Don't worry about that now, Clara." Someone speaks – it's him, but it doesn't feel like it's him, but instead the right thing to say; and as he speaks, he doesn't know if he's dimming down the fire, desperate for a unreasonable amount of control, or adding fuel to it. "Just focus on now – it's alright," He stresses the word _alright_, it snarls and blooms in his chest and it has gravity, a weight, and a pull as it leaves his mouth. "It's alright, to cry."

This phrase, as it leaves his mouth; is completely and utterly, _true. _It's honest, it's alive, it's healthy and good, but the next one that follows is it's opposing opposite, the hushed little whisper of a repeated phrase, "Everything's alright." A complete, and utter amount of bullshit, because she is dying; of some alien disease that originates millions and millions years of the future and he can't fix it; all he can do is make it a little less painful, physically at the best; because emotionally it's going to be Hell. Hell on Earth, for everything within their knit, sliced together little group.

She's also the terminally ill case – she's the person who's died in a car accident. She's living in the final moments of impact; just before a pole from the other car spills out and, breaking through her windshield and jamming her in the chest; killing her on the spot.

And there's nothing he can do; he's the paramedic or the man who comes rushing from the opposing car, only to find her dead on the spot; and with a pipe slammed through her chest, it's not like he can perform CPR.

She hiccups; and struggles, and gasps against him; her soft whimpers continuing into the darkness and all he can do is hold her tighter; his hand having stilled on her back and returned to her shoulder, focusing on keeping her – safe. If being wrapped in his arms, is safe, as though the disease is something lurking in the shadows; waiting to strike – which it's not, it's pumping through her veins; plowing through her brain and trying to rip the wall apart up there.

Eventually; in some sort of time, in the in-between of everything, she speaks.

"I'm scared."

She hiccups; and the word escapes on it, muddled with other wet and sloppy noises and her lips curl around the sentence, as though it's dragged itself up from her throat, and come out covered in muck and disgust; she says it as though it's shameful, to be afraid; not foolishly afraid, but life-flashing-before-your-eyes afraid – stronger than that, the cold sweat you get that prickles at your fingertips and arms, and lower back; makes your heart beat too fast, breath come in to quickly and mind refuse to stop; going going going, refusing to slow down and all at the same time feeling like you're going to vomit. The kind of being afraid that eats you alive.

And once that single sentence escapes, others follow it. Someone's unlocked the door and let all the things kept up tight behind it flow out, a string of words; a flood of sentences. All filled with the razor-blade scrapping tone, and ragged as they drag up her throat and flee from her mouth; desperate little hisses, or whispers; pleads almost.

"I'm – I'm so scared."

"_I don't want to die._"

He pulls her closer at those words – well, a few seconds, _after_. If he's honest; because that sentence had brought the fire back into the ruins of their earth; there, small little once beautiful world, and now it's burning a new; smoke pouring into what could have eventually been a cleared sky. He twists and turns, and pushes against the bed with the heels of his feet; and slams into the wall behind him abruptly, without warning; and ignores the shock that jars through his frame, snipping at his edges and joints; because the only shock he can feel now is the cold, jarring bolt of electricity that came at her words.

He's yanking, clinging – he very well might be crying too – and wiggling, sitting up against the wall; and then cradling her. Cradling and clinging and she's his mirror image; the two of them are stuck in a hurricane and their on the very edge of shaking out of their skin, and they're also each other's shelters, if they let go they'll get swept up into the smoke filled atmosphere, lost among debris.

She then waits for the coin to drop – for him to say something, for him to break the silence; for some sort of relief that comes with his words, reassurance. And he could certainly tell her something – "_You won't die."_; but the punch line here, twisted and mutilated and without a single trace of humor, is that sentence ends with, "_Not for a long time_."

But her long time is only a few months – at best. Mixed in with good days, and bad days and weeks without sound or sight or thought or touch; her definition of a long time is stripped down to scraps, it's broken and an ugly thing.

It's everything she doesn't deserve; but people hardly ever get what they deserve, in a good sense or a bad one.

Some are lucky however, they get a life time; which is the universal definition of, "A long time."

So, he can't say anything; not anything in the sort of comfort she is seeking for – and he knows this, but slowly she realizes it; her sniffles and whimpers and sobs become separate; the length between them stretching out, pulling apart; her hands slide down his shoulders, fingers curling and tucking and pawing at the fabric of his shirt, pulling at his collar and prodding the buttons as her hands come to rest on his chest; a few inches above his slow, painful hearts. She pushes away, and up from him, her legs still tangled with his, but their chests are separate, connected by her hands but besides that touch on the upper parts of their bodies is sterile.

And then, slowly she lifts her head; staring at him, her brow just a faint echo, a dent of emotion; curved upwards and her lips are parted slightly; but for once, free of sound; his chest lifts underneath his hands, just a few millimeters and she shifts when he begins to breath; as though realizing how close they are, she scoots away, still in his lap but now a few centimeters away and it feels like a part of _him_ is being _pulled_ away; two pieces of fabric stitched together being ripped apart, with no heed for the seams that hold them together; the thread pops and rips, and floats to the floor; scatters.

He wishes, so greatly that it didn't feel that way.

She scoots forward after a few seconds, settling in as though she feels the same way; welcoming and accepting the emotion in a few seconds of motion, carving out a home in this need for touch and contact, in the brush of skin against skin in the near dark and then becoming still after all of it; large, glossy and bright pink and deep brown eyes still as well; she continues to stare at him, unblinking.

She blinks; and her mouth parts, she doesn't clear her throat – doesn't _go_ to speak.

She's still waiting, he realizes it about the same time she does – for him to speak.

But he's got nothing to say; at least, nothing she wants to hear.

So instead, he swallows and says: "I won't let that happen." The words leave without permission and he pays for the consequences of saying it with his soul; his throat bleeds out, and curls in on itself self; rolling into heavy stone like objects that crack his chest and cave it in; pressing against his heart, smashing and clawing against his lungs; coating everything in a mesh of sorrow and fear and _horror_.

She continues to stare – her cheeks twitch and pull, unsure of which direction to go in; but in the end they resolve with downwards; her features go slack, and then with a sharp look of a mixture of several things despair and devastation being above it all, her lips turn downwards; her eyes shine like glimmering – and dying – stars in the darkness of that room.

She clears her throat then, blinking, unshed tears clinging to her lashes as she does so, and he can see – can pinpoint the exact moment when the final crack breaks her and she shatters and when she's turning to dust – flying, long gone; she begins to speak. Her tone is wavering, struggling between strong and stable but wanting to join the rest of her and break completely.

"You really can't stop this, can you?"

He swallows and stares down at her; his hands twitch at his sides; one rises beyond, skipping upwards, fluttering over her lower back and across the upper span of her shoulders, coming up to her face; her cheek, thumb skimming along her jaw, and he tucks back the stray locks of deep brown hair – clearing his throat as he does so; and they both know he's stalling, doesn't want to seal the deal, give her another death sentence; and their both perfectly okay with that.

When he does speak; his voice is low, and small – almost careful, but it's a razor blade; so there's no way to careful, they're going to cut their fingers and hands when they handle it no matter how careful they are.

"No. I can't. I'm sorry, Clara." He's right – he can't, he _can't fix this_. The man who calls himself Doctor; cannot heal a single soul, and sorry – _sorry_ doesn't even begin to _cover_ it; apologies, no matter of what amount can fix this, his mind swings back around; slamming into him, a voice snarling in his ear. He can't fix this she is going to die – and his hearts, are going to stop. Have stopped, will continue to stop and start again and there is nothing he can _do_.

It – the voice is no longer snarling, growling, lashing or threatening – it's screaming, throwing a tantrum, smashing the things inside his mind, ripping them up and yelling – howling, slaughtering its own vocal cords.

On the outside; his face is a clean slate, careful of emotion, on the outside he swallows and inhales and tries not to yell as the voice continues to scream, to point out there is nothing he can do.

Except make her comfortable, make it as painless as death can be; physically, and he'll try to shoulder whatever emotional baggage she will allow him to take.

He goes to speak again; but she gives a violent shake of her head; and after the main tremor passes, the others begin slowly; lapping at her frame like waves on the sea shore.

She shakes again; violently, the realization hitting her once more – soul shockingly cold; her death, the inedible ending, his inability to fix this. Her lips shake as she pulls in a breath; curling in more so, pushing against the blankets, attempting to get closer to him; because when reality is shattering around her – she needs something to hold onto; she needs a shelter, she needs something just as real as the thing pumping through her veins; and he is all of those things.

He pulls her the rest of the way, using one of his hands to push away the single obnoxious blanket (it ends up somewhere on the floor with a dull thump, and neither of them care) and wraps the same arm around her middle back and simply _pulls_, then she's cradled against him, chest to chest; curled in on herself, her hands fiddle and cling to the collar of his shirt, while his hands rub small, steady circles across her back and the only noise in the room is some very, unsteady breathing; done at different a tempo, rates.

Her breath curls and flares against his neck – she continues to breath; small little inhales and exhales; as though if she moves any more than that the world around them will shatter completely; and they'll get stuck underneath the ruins, buried deep within the earth, unable to ever return to the surface; trapped in their positions.

And grief, dread; sorrow, all mixed into a single kind of worn-out feeling, are all perfectly capable of doing that so, he remains perfectly still as well; sheltering her from the harsh, violent reality of the situation around them as much as he can.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

It's been a lifetime, they're floating in the aftermath – the nothingness and everything of it all when one of them speaks; and it's her – with a flat voice, and tiny vocals, struggling to etch their way into the surrounding air as she speaks; "So – so, now what?"

He swallows and feels nails drag along a chalk board down his throat, razor blades plucking at the skin, popping in and out; a mirror image to his strength and self control, the pitching of his words, the crack and bend which he trys so hard to prevent; "You've got a while, a while to do whatever you want." His voice is stable enough, strong.

She sits up and pulls away from him, hands leaving his neck, sliding down to his chest where her fingers curl and spread out against it, slowly pushing away as she rises. Underneath her flesh his hearts pound, slamming against his paper thin skin and he swallows, hopping she can't feel the haywire pace of them.

The threads that held them together tug, shriveling and splitting in protests of her movement; falling and dropping away, in favor of leaving him for her; she shifts against him, her fingers re-curling and then flattening, she blinks and swallows and a single question hands in the air, going unasked by both but instead asking itself.

_How long is a while? _

Which is the same way of asking:_ How long do I have to live? _But without adding live to the sentence, because that brings back the factor that by the end of this charade, this play, this act; she will be dead, or her body and mind will be useless riddled with disease and she'll be hanging on by a single, worn out and exhausted thread, desperate to break and ready to just _let go_.

But she doesn't ask it, and he doesn't answer.

And they're both perfectly okay with that.

She lifts a hand and scrubs at her forehead; fingertips vibrating and shaking as she does so – but besides that they remain stable and reliable; movements slowly gaining their control as she brushes back her hair, sweat slick little locks clinging to her forehead move to rest behind her ear, and then trailing down the side of her face to prod at the edges of her eyes; whipping away any remaining tears or traces.

"Well then," Her tongue flicks out and runs over the edges of her lips – dried and cracked; tainted faintly with blood and bite marks. "I'll just um –"She's moving away; pulling back and pushing against the bed – his chest, all feeble and desperate attempts to move and get away; he withdraws, slinking back against the wall and understand completely that it is her choice to leave, and in the same heartbeat knowing that if that is what she wants, he will do it.

Even if the request is permanently.

Even if it kills him – but then again, this new reality – everything, in this moment is designed to kill him; every single heart peat, every lurking shadow, every glimpse of hope and echo of a smile, all plotting and plagued with his demise, lurking and hoping to simply hurt him further and succeeding seconds later, because he knows every happy memory will not last, nor save her.

He watches as she stands on shaky feet; with her messed up pajama shirt, tear stained face; splotchy, bright red skin and clothes that cling like a second skin with sweat. She inhales and her frame shakes; an impossibly thin structure, unstable and teetering on the edge is what she has become.

He waits for it to shatter – to tip off the edge of the table and smash against the floor; but it doesn't, she doesn't, or at least puts it off for a few seconds and then does break; skin flushing even further, turning a sharp red and then swinging across the spectrum as her skin goes pale and sharp; a snow white murky color and the sweat on her skin flickers and shines.

He swallows, and his hands crawl into his lap like wounded dogs; he wrings them; eyes flickering down and then back up – he holds her eyes; if she's willing too, and she is, when she continues to hold his gaze and he takes that as acceptance in a way and speaks; "You've got time." His voice is low and careful; but he's managed to force it to be stable, to reflect a sort of calmness to help relax her.

A little bit of color returns to her face; just a little bit – a faint shade of pink – the early sunrise, against the snowy palate, and it's enough for him in this moment; enough for her.

"Alright," The skin on her shoulder and neck flare with a vibrant shade of red – her body is at war with its self; trying to defeat and live in the ruins of her broken mind and come to terms with everything and failing to do so; unsure of what to do, to heal and not yet aware that it _can't _heal what's going on inside. "I'm just –"

He nods; an act to end her struggle, a feeble attempt for words and she takes it gratefully as he goes to stand, swinging his legs around and feet landing silently on the floor; bending and scooping up his discarded clothes when he stands.

His thoughts are silent as he piles the articles of fabric into his arms, placing shoes above it all; an echo of nothingness, dark and completely bare; and surprisingly it remains that way as he straightens, walks around the bed, heading for the door. It's all a blank slate as he speaks. "I'll be in the console room," His voice is soft and gentle; permitting her to interrupt at any moment; but she doesn't, despite that he can feel her unstable form behind him, shaking, vibrating on the edge of sound and noise, almost speaking but never doing so.

She doesn't protest when he opens the door, which creaks as though it's voicing it's pity on him; and the bundle of things is suddenly a life support, he's gripping them, _pressing_ them against his chest all because it's something to hold and that's what he needs in this moment, in this, yet still apocalyptic moment; he needs something to hold as he walks from the room without a single word.

He doesn't blame her – he never would; if she wants him gone and her silence offers that up, the possibility of it all – the harsh and cold and vivid reality that by the end of this he may just lose her in more than one way, which seems so ironic because he is _losing _her in the biggest way possible; with death.

He knows, as his feet shuffle along the corridor, without a single thought of where he's heading that he does blame himself for this; it isn't even surprising as he realizes it, just another spiral of cold, another icicle hanging from his rib, buried deep inside his chest.

Because after all, he gave this to her; her death sentence, he looked into it and told her that she was going to die.

And then refused to give any other facts when she asked, gliding past her questions of how long would she have and how did it happen; excusing his actions with the lie of not yet, I'll tell her in a few minutes; simply because he's selfish, in so many ways; and above all, he doesn't want to have to face this yet, to really try and begin to accept that she is dying and he can't fix it.

Not yet.

But that can only last for so long.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

If someone could crawl whilst standing, that is how he would describe her movements.

She slinks out into the console room about half an hour later, drifting along the wall as she goes; her hand trailing along it's edges; her feet don't waver but she moves as though the air is suddenly breakable.

Her hair is damp and curled from where it spills over her shoulders; it's not brushed, tangled in large knots. She sinks her teeth into her lips as she rounds the console, taking small and careful steps in his direction. She's shaking slightly; and her teeth pull back with an audible smack as she parts her lips.

"Do you have a phone I could use? –"She stutters slightly, "I can't find mine." Her feet are silent as they climb up the steps; a few seconds between each rise, her hands then come to trail along the console, she's looking for a handhold, he realizes this but doesn't say anything, instead choosing to remain silent and casting his gaze over to the dull black phone where it rests in it's cradle.

It's a lie, he knows; she knows where hers is – in her room, not exactly where, but in her room; and he knows she doesn't want to look for it because that requires movement, that requires thought – and those things hurt far too much right now.

He bids her a small nod; not wanting to speak – to scare her away, and he rounds the console, just a few inches away and he plucks the black phone from its cradle; the cord attached to the base and the ship untangles with a bit of tugging, and he hands it to her. "Number?" He asks after a few seconds of hesitation.

One word questions are good – they are alright, they're cut off; the possibilities and what-ifs end before they even begin; they are safe.

She tells him; he puts it in, the phone clicks softly and then begins to ring; he begins to withdraw, a few small steps backwards that take him further away; lingering at the edges of the console, as she had done upon entering the room; drifting around it's corners – acting like a ghost.

It's six seconds – no, he hadn't been counting – when someone answers and he watches the inner turmoil grow, bubble and thrive; it turns into a storm and clouds her features as she goes to speak, opening her mouth but in the same movement it's sealed; covered with a thin layer of fear and within that layer she finds herself unable to force the words out; past the dread and fear.

Seconds tick by – precious moments, and in them he can hear the crackle of a, _"Hello?" _on the other end of the phone, followed by a confused, stuttered and laced with a hint of annoyance,_ "Hello, is anyone there? I swear if this is someone in the government –"_

She swallows; and he watches her eyes turn glossy; she shakes, violently and his feet tug on the floor – he fights the urge to go over, because now – now he doesn't know what's allowed, touching was so very limited in their first reality after all, done in moments of celebration and great excitement, the highs of adventure – and now this, after this; _in_ this ruin, dragged and torn apart little thing – he doesn't know.

"It's me, Dad." She croaks, and her words come out in a rush; a violent string – not a gentle thread but something closer to barb wire, "It's um – There's an emergency –" That's a big word, a big scary word; a word that in the end will capture someone's attention and turn them into putty in your hands. "I just – can you meet me at the Maitland's house? Please, as soon as possible." She's rushing out her sentences; acting as though this is ripping off a band aid, the quicker she can get it over with; then it's over with. Done. Ended. One less thing to worry about.

She's speaking, not allowing gaps between the words, even the natural ones; the rushed phrases and from where he stands he can hear the crackled protests on the other ends, the nearly shouted demands; but they get cut off because she slams the phone back into its cradle after a few seconds.

She remains a statue in the aftermath; the dust settling around her, her fingers curl and uncurl around the center of the phone and she draws in a breath as she does – a thick, soggy sound that fills the room and bounces off the walls, cut off by the TARDIS's gentle hums about their heads – a hand on her shoulder in a way; the ships natural hostility pulled back completely to reveal nothing more than pure comfort and compassion.

He watches as her teeth poke out and sink into her lip; her face contorts and her eyes grow wide as she realizes what she's just done; send her father into a frenzy, thrown him under the bus; tossed him out into the cold, into the rain and thunder and the hurricane that's ripping up the ground; she's brought him into the apocalypse, without warning and without a single word; picked him up, dumped him seconds later. Not a single explanation, ignoring his shouts and protests as she ran in the other direction afterwards.

She was so focused on doing the action, she wasn't actually doing it, wasn't living in it.

She swallows and her teeth with track, and carefully she with draws her hand, it slides along the buttons and levers on the consoles panels before returning to its twin; fingers running across fingers, curling around each other as she wrings them.

She then slowly lifts her head; hands falling to her sides, limp and useless; and speaks.

"I – I guess – I could have handled that better."

Tears have begun to spill over the edges of her eyes by the time the word _handled _leaves her lips; and by the time she's finished speaking her lips smash together and curl downwards; separating in small little gaps at the edges; gaps which reveal the barest hint of teeth, and with this movement her shoulders hitch; her breath turns from soggy and damp to hiccups; and then to sharp, violent and repetitive gasps, mixed in with the occasional hiccups.

The noise of her sobs fills the room; fills it, leaving every corner, every crevice tainted with it – touched with it.

Something that will forever be engraved into his ears. Into his hearts – mind, nightmares; anything and everything, because he will never forget what her fear; her defeat, her grief; her emotions sounds like, what _she_ sounds like because after all the luxury of her voice now is limited in a unexpected way; and without warning, he's moving; striding across the room and pulling her into his arms, against his chest; _to_ him.

Just in time to catch her as she crumbles and they end up in the floor; her knees bend and snap and she's sagging against him like a rag doll, and he doesn't put up a fight when they go tumbling down, landing on his rear with a painful jagged bump, but he doesn't care; the pain that vibrates through his bones is unimportant as he continues to pull her closer; into his lap, into a cradle that is made up by his arms.

"I can't –"She's flushed, her words are full of air; far, far too much air. "I can't – I can't do this." It's a wail, in all honesty; a high pitched, scream that morphs into the mold of words; but not without bleeding out over the edge, the echo of her yell tinkling on her words.

He moves then, just slightly; just so they're at a better angle, so she's closer, leaning against him – and he can feel as though he's sheltering her.

Her frame shakes and quick, uneven gasps fill the air; broken with chopped up and desperate sentences, strings of words that are spoken now with a world of hesitation and pauses. "Oh my stars – How – how am I supposed to – leave him, I can't, _I can't_ – and Angie, and Artie and George –" These cracked and feeble attempts to speak fill his ears; each phrase without a lick of sense if taken in on its own, but he knows the back story to this and so they make perfect sense to his ears.

Her head tilts and rolls and she stares up at him with impossibly large eyes; her lip trembles and a small frown begins to bend in the creases of her forehead, "Oh and you –" She pauses; hands fiddle in her lap, she prods at his chest – his face, his cheeks, fingers slipping; clinging, as though she's looking for some part of him to hold onto but being unable to find one. "I'll just be another ghost."

For a moment, a ridiculous moment, he's unsure of how to take that statement – is she fearing for herself? That this is true, and inedible. Or for him? Him, who they all know will be alone after she's gone; he was alone in the first place when he found her and that it'll be the same once she's gone again.

And in the death of that moment, he doesn't care – because he can pick every single little word and phrase, and stance, later; for now he is in this moment. "No," He growls, staring down at her – willing, begging, that she see's and understands. "No, you, Clara Oswald, are not a ghost. You never have been and you never will be, and don't worry about me." He throws those last few words and hopes that they are right. "You need to focus on yourself, on your family –"Surprisingly, for once he isn't rambling; taking his time with each word, delivering them at the same rate, pitch and tone.

"How long do I have to do that?" She growls, cutting him off; squirming slightly, but not pushing away; her movements are desperate – wild, she's itching to do something and the only thing she can do is get away from him. She swallows and stills, clearing her throat but her voice still comes out moist and slick; covered and rolled over in gravel as it claws its way up her throat. "How long do I have?" She pauses, clearing her throat again while her eyes flutter; glossing over once more, "Honestly. I need you to tell me, how long I have – to live." She blinks and clears her throat again; but besides that goes completely silent, staring up at him in the aftermath; waiting for him to speak.

And just like that the ground, the mulch, the ruins of everything – anything that _could_ have been solid, could have saved him gone, gone beneath his feet and it doesn't stop there; the words, the sharp sting of reality and what it means to have her ask that – it rips him, it reaches inside and rips him apart, grabbing at vital organs and his mind – until he's hollow, a tree that's had its insides removed completely by insects and animals and is somehow expected to still be able to stand.

He's numb and long gone when he answers, his mind is bare a faint echo of thoughts, but everything's slipping, sliding past him and he's powerless to stop it.

"A year to seven months, it depends on –"He cracks and shatters, these words are chipping away at him, merciless; and his mind bleeds back in through the cracks, returning to the moment and his body; sinking into his skin despite how desperately he wants to escape it; because he must, because if he fades away now – if he slips away, if he allows himself to stop, he'll be leaving her to fend for her own and he can't do that. He can't do that, so instead he continues to do what he can, he speaks.

"It depends on what I can do, and I will do _everything_, I can, Clara."

She stares up at him – her face contorting in something he can't name, and she swallows and that unknown look, that unlabeled emotion is gone; gone from the edges of her face and the tops of her cheeks, which are now a clean slate; her features are free – free of the slightest hint of emotion, and her voice is too, for the most part, just barely laced with the sound of tears.

"I know."

She blinks and her face retains its look; sharp and strong, like porcelain, and then slowly she begins to crack – a splinter of shards that spread across her left cheek and climb across her nose, towards her eyes; which gloss over as they cross it. She swallows and a crest fallen look comes to overtake her face. Her eyes dip away; to the far wall as she speaks, occasionally flicking back in his direction but only remaining for a few seconds.

"But it won't be enough." She whispers eventually; her hand falling, trailing along his chest for a few seconds before landing in her lap with a dull plop. He watches as she swallows – his kind scrapes against his thoughts; thoughts that fight and yell and offer short term solutions up until the moment he chooses to ignore them completely, focusing on her fully as – she pushes against the floor, somehow removing herself from his lap with a bit of effort; eventually rising and stepping over his legs, remaining a few inches away.

"I'll be right back," She says in some point of time – and suddenly, she's gone, and he's left sitting alone on the floor – scrambling around his re-opened thoughts, desperate for a hand hold because this new reality is sweeping into him; filling his lungs and drowning him like it does every time it swings back around because – he, he can't save her. He can't fix this.

The man, who calls himself _Doctor_, can't make her better.

His lungs are full of cement; pushing out the air, he's floating – away, his limbs are too light.

The floor creaks and the TARDIS hums and he looks up. She's standing there; face still slightly splotchy with different shades of color, but the tear stains are gone; her hair is brushed, gently pooling around her face and shoulders. She's wearing a black dress with several white stars that dance across it in random spots, and over that a heavy, deep purple jacket.

Her lips – which are still bright red and slightly bloody – are no longer cracked; so that's an improvement, a small one; that it's no longer visible to stranger how chewed her lips are, but still an improvement none the less.

"Can we go to directly a few seconds after I made the call?" Her arms curl around her form, shaking and filled with desperation; he pushes himself to stand, grabbing at the edges of the console to hall himself up; with this movement, his mind begins to turn; churning out ideas and in the mess of it all he thinks he says something, because one second his mouth is closed and in the next it's open, with the echo of his own voice ringing in his ears; but the words too muddled to make out.

So focused on _now _that he didn't even hear himself speak, his hand curls around a lever and as his fingers connect with his palm a swift, steady vibration spreads into his arms; his hands are shaking.

He swallows; blinks and tries to calm the sea of his mind.

And then he pulls; the lever smacks against the paneling and stills afterwards, and he yanks his hand back to his side and takes a step back in the same movement.

The rotors above the console flare and spin, and come to life; and after what feels like a decade, they stall; and slowly stop, the familiar noise filling the air.

And then it's still.

The only noise, the only movement in the room is their breathing; slow and steady, desperate and clinging to the edge of control; and in that moment, they are so very breakable. They both know it, and it forces him to take extra care as he begins moving, heading over in her direction; just a few footsteps to the right.

She doesn't remove her gaze from the time rotor when he drifts to her side; she blinks, and her eyes flick in his direction then back up and to him again; and even in that small, less than a second glance he can see the fear glinting in her eyes.

"We have all the time in the world," He whispers, and she blinks again.

They do in all honesty, the TARDIS is hovering in the time vortex; found her landing spot but not yet landed. She's waiting for the pair inside to prepare themselves, before they open a new chapter in this dark, destroyed apocalyptic book. She'll land and sink into the Sunday afternoon, around three o-clock when they're ready. And only then.

He glances around the room; giving her a sense of aloneness, hoping to ease the feeling as though she has some sort of act to play – a role to perform, and when he casts his gaze away one hand uncurls from where it had been wrapped around her elbow and flies over to where his rest and hang at his sides.

And in the heartbeat after that his hand closes around hers; thumb stroking the back of her hand, and her fingers dig like claws into the back of his; making little indents shaped like crescents in the skin; and bringing shades of pink into the surrounding area of the cresive as they do so.

"Alright." She breathes; sinking her teeth into her lip and then undoing so after a few seconds, as if just remember what kind of damage that will do to her skin. He doubts _she_ cares, but only stops it due to how her family will take it – shocked and appalled, and only added worry. Unneeded emotions on top of everything else.

She clears her throat and her voice is unwavering when she speaks; but however, laced with fear and the edge of tears, and from where he stands he can see her eyes gloss over. "Let's do this."

He wishes she didn't view it as ripping off a band aid – but, that's what it is, that's what this is; although, he's thankful she's treating it more carefully than the phone call to her father.

She's ripping off the band aid, but this time she's being more cautious and careful; taking notice of the heeling wound, hair and skin underneath the sticky rubber-plastic like material.

The TARDIS hums above their heads; one deep, rich noise that fills the room and vibrates against their skin, the lights bloom and dim and somewhere in the mess of noise and light; they find it within themselves to move, slowly walking towards the door hand in hand when she suddenly lurches forward, staggering slightly; feet smacking against the floor in several uneven beats and his follow as he goes through the same movement to keep her upright.

"I'm alright –"She breaths, and she's shaking, her voice is strangled – as though she's choking on it.

"No, you're not." He whispers as she comes to gather her feet underneath her; one hand still entrapped in his, the other coming to rest on his shoulder; and with his free hand he brushes back her hair, looking into her eyes when she looks up to greet him. "You're dying, Clara." He continues, and her eyes gloss over. "There's nothing okay or alright about that." His voice is below a whisper – scrapping along the floor and floating with the dust.

Her lips part slightly and she breathes; tears swim over the edges of her eyes and she looks away, her hand on his shoulder squeezes as clings to him. She pulls in a breath and her grip loosens. "Let's –"She clips and clears her throat. "Let's just get this over with, alright?"

Her gaze returns to him and all he can see is the desperation that laces her eyes along with the tears, the fear – the dread. "I'll be with you," He whispers; skimming over her statement for the moment. "I'm not going anywhere. We – you don't have to do this alone, alright, Clara? I'll be with you every step of the way."

She clears her throat and for a moment some of those dark; slick and sloppy emotions fade – replaced by hope, just for a moment. "Alright," She returns.

And with that, they separate and return to side by side; he pulls her a little closer however as he extends a hand and pushes open the door, holding it open as she slides past it, past him.

The door swings shut behind him – he doesn't get a moment, or the chance to pause and collect his thoughts, once they stepped outside; and in the empty ship a low echo is heard; a deep mechanical moan; a goodbye from the ship herself, a way of expressing grief; the lights bloom and soften.

And then there is silence.

Only silence.


End file.
